


The Way Out

by Arcanista



Series: Holding Pattern [13]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Family, Gen, Love, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans takes care of some paperwork. The family goes for a picnic. Life finally goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _So close no matter how far_   
>  _Couldn't be much more from the heart_   
>  _Forever trusting who we are_   
>  _And nothing else matters_

_Some Time Later_

Frisk jolts awake, throat dry and seizing. They clutch their blankets tightly and stare up into the darkness, willing their breath to calm. Whose dream? Whose memory? Sleep flees with the nightmare in tow, any chance at awareness gone with it.

They try to calm down, try to unclench their hands, to breathe more easily. They're not great at calm even now but just being awake, away from the dream helps a little.

Well, that's it for sleep tonight. Frisk sits up slowly, because the last thing they need right now is a headache from trying to move too fast. They grope around with their right hand until they touch cool, smooth plastic. They slide their fingers around until they catch hold of the bridge of the glasses, and pick them up.

Frisk puts their glasses on and slides their feet out of bed and into the pair of slippers they left by the edge of the bed. They stand up, t-shirt swishing against their knees. Deep breaths, nice and slow. They shuffle out of their bedroom into the hall. A nightlight down by the floor blinks on, giving them enough to see the fingerprints smeared on their glasses. They take them off, rubbing them clean on their shirt.

The kitchen light is already on; they hear the sound of the fridge shutting. Frisk steps out of their slippers and starts tiptoeing. The metallic snug of wire against bread echoes from the toaster to Frisk's ears. They stand just by the edge of the doorway to plan their angle of attack. Plastic rustling.

They dart around, sneaking right up behind Sans and throw their arms around him, cheek coming to rest on his back. Whatever magic makes him up supports their arms and feels warm as ever, though the soft t-shirt he's got on.

"Hey, kiddo," Sans says, patting Frisk's hand. "You're up late." He reaches up into the cupboard, pulling down a jar of peanut butter, then opens the bag of bread back up to pull out two more slices.

"Couldn't sleep," says Frisk. They don't need to tell him any more than that, and he's not going to ask. But they hold onto him tightly, and he knows what that means. Well, he wouldn't be up at this hour without a reason, too.

Toast pops up, and Sans pulls the slices out. Peanut butter on one side, jam on the other and he flattens the sandwich with one hand once he puts them together. All still monster food, because that's kind of important for a house that's mostly people with only magic tummies. Just as well too because most of them gets very... distressed by human food. Sans cuts the sandwich into four, diagonally, and pushes it across the counter within their reach. He slides the other two slices of bread into the toaster. Frisk picks up a piece of sandwich.

"You should try and get back to bed in a bit," says Sans, pushing toast-crumbs into a tiny hill. "You got a big day up ahead of you."

Frisk shudders at the notion of sleep, and they know Sans can feel it. "I, I guess. But not yet. Do I have to go?" Public is hard. It's hard to be around strangers in general when they're still needing to work things out amongst themself. Hard to tell when they're being _consistent_. And there's so many eyes on them... no, they don't enjoy it, any of them. Not Asriel, who was more or less born to it, and not even Chara, who knows when to smile and how to say what they need to say. Certainly not Frisk, whose palms go sweaty and their throat dry without that help. They take a bite of sandwich.

Sans turns around to face Frisk, looking down at them. He rubs at his sockets with one hand, and says, "Think you gotta, kiddo. You'll be fine, you're getting good at these PR things. And Paps'll be there and the king, too. And this one's got food, yeah? Can't talk to anybody with your face stuffed full of food."

"I guess," they say, and sigh. They finish the slice and pick up another. "Aren't you gonna be there?"

The toast pops up again and Sans turns back to make another sandwich. "Nah," he says, and makes a short laugh. "You know how I am about dress codes. I got some paperwork to deal with, too."

That's definitely him evading _something_ there but Frisk decides not to ask. They've never talked about it but they've definitely settled into a quiet agreement about neither one asking questions about things the other doesn't want to discuss. And he's right, too. With the King and Papyrus there and enough food to keep their mouth busy, everything should be fine. Still, it would be nice. They sigh again. "Okay. Okay. But I'm not going back to sleep yet."

"Didn't say you had to," says Sans, turning back around and eating half his sandwich in one bite. He waves Frisk toward the kitchen table, waiting for them to pick up the rest of their sandwich. "Just later."

Frisk sits down and nods, shifting the two sandwich-triangles around each other. They look out the window, up at the cloudy black sky. "I guess. I guess. This is, it's hard. I knew it would be. It's okay that it is. But, I mean, it's hard in ways I didn't expect. There's so much more to think about, and, I don't know, before, it's like I was only worry about one thing at a time. Does, does that make sense?"

Sans looks down at the remains of his sandwich. "Yeah, kid," he says. "Yeah, it does. But you don't wanna go back to all that, do you?"

They pick up a triangle and look at the golden-brown crispy patterns on the toast. They sigh. They could just not answer it, and Frisk is pretty sure Sans would be fine with that. They answer. "I don't, but sometimes, I think I do. And that's, it's scary. Because that was bad. That was so bad. I nearly died. _Again_. Worse than died. How could I..."

"Yeah," says Sans. He puts his sandwich down on the table. "... yeah."

They both finish their sandwiches, crunching them down quietly. Neither one of them gets up afterward.

"But hey," says Sans, and Frisk looks right up to his face. "You haven't died once since. You're doing great. If you can't help but feel down sometimes, you know, try and remember you can get a hand with taking care of yourself. You've got people who really care about you."

* * *

The apartment's small but not cramped, with a decent view of the evening skyline. Sans has no business being here whatsoever, but he absolutely has cause. But while he's not averse to a little breaking-and-entering, not that anything broke when he took the shortcut inside, he's not much for stealing. So he plonks himself on the couch, turns the TV on, and waits.

Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour of waiting and the front door opens, lights clicking on. There's a jingle of keys behind him and then all sound cuts short as the owner of the place realizes she's not alone. "Who's there?" she calls out. Nervous, but not afraid. That's fine.

Sans rises from the couch and slides his hands into his pockets. He's thoroughly unimposing; hoodie, sneakers, shorts. Amiable smile. And then there's the skeleton bit.

She's about average height, dark hair curled back into a loose ponytail. Glasses too. She sees him and the keys drop to the floor. "You're-- you're one of those..." She looks past him, at the TV. The camera's zoomed in on Asgore, giving gardening tips. Speeches, he's not great at. Making himself approachable, he is. "You're one of _those_."

"Monsters, in general," says Sans. "Skeletons, in specific. I'm Sans. Sans the skeleton." He doesn't extend his hand. She's not a _friend_. But he smiles the same smile he always does, and he keeps a casual stance.

"What do you want?" says the woman responsible for about a sixth of all this. Her voice only shakes a little bit.

Sans strolls from behind the couch and stands in front of a framed photograph on the wall. There's dust on top of it. It's of two teenage humans, a couple years apart maybe, meticulously posed in front of a curtain. They look pretty similar, both a lot like the woman in front of him. Dark hair, unruly on one of them, glasses, serious faces. Not much meant for smiling, either of them, but they both are in this shot. Looks kind of forced on both of them. "I understand you used to have a sister," says Sans. "You ever wonder what happened to her kid?"

All the blood drains out of the woman's face. "I don't understand," she says. "What is this about? Why are you here? I'll-- I'll call the police."

"I'll be gone before they show up, if you do," says Sans, and shrugs. "I'll take that as a 'no'. Which is sad, but not a surprise. Were you as unhappy as you made them?" He turns away from the photograph and looks at Frisk's aunt. "Don't answer that. 'Cause that answer's also 'no'."

"I don't know how you know about any of this," she says, bending to pick up her keys. She never takes her eyes off Sans. "But she was my _sister_! Of course I was unhappy when she died! I took her child in out of the goodness of my heart! Better to stay with family than some-- some stranger! Not that any of that's the business of one of you... _monsters_. Now tell me why you're here!"

Sans looks back to the TV. It's cut away from Asgore now, and two humans are talking to each other now. One of the government representatives to the monsters kingdom getting interviewed, he thinks. In the background, he can see his brother, and there, a small, bespectacled human child clutching his hand. Even with their hair tamed, the resemblance is unmistakable. "Either you don't pay attention to any of the news at all, or you know this is my business. Our business. It's not like you've reached out, so, you know, could go either way. Better that you didn't. But whatever." He shrugs.

The woman's gone speechless now, looking fully at the TV. She stands, stiff as a board, keychain shaking in the air below her hand.

"I guess we should consider ourselves grateful to you, huh?" says Sans. "I mean, gee. If Frisk had never ended up underground, none of us would have been able to come up here." A beat. Two. "I don't feel very grateful. Neither does anyone who knows the kid. Of course you were _unhappy_. But only one of the two of you decided they'd rather die than spend one more second with the other."

"What do you want?" she asks hoarsely. Sans can hear Frisk in that voice, older though she is.

Sans takes a second, just watching her. His hands don't so much as budge from his pockets. "You had legal custody of the kid for-- a while. That means you've got the paperwork. I'm assuming you didn't toss it the second they ran away. I want everything you have. Birth certificates, immunization records, report cards, psychological assessments. Hell, baby teeth if you've got 'em. I'm here for _everything_."

She just stares at him for a few seconds before heading for a credenza. "Why?" she asks, pulling folders out of a box inside. She flips through each of them before stacking them on top, one by one.

"Someone's gonna do right by this kid," says Sans, leaning against the back of the couch to watch her. "Even if you were never going to. Lady, if Frisk's how you treat your family, I'd hate to see what you do to your friends. As far as you should be concerned, that kid who used to live here died when they ran away. And that's more the truth than you deserve to know."

Frisk's aunt stands and starts going through some drawers. She takes out some more of the paperwork. "You can't just, just show up out of nowhere with a human child. _Those_ don't come from nowhere. Do you think nobody'll ask questions? The police--"

"-- don't look too hard for runaways," says Sans. "I read the original police report. Saw the lobby's security cam for that date and time. And I talked to the kid. Running away in the middle of the night's kinda unambiguous. Shame about that data entry error. No, the police don't have an accurate description or any pertinent records. Or anyone else, for that matter. We've got computers downstairs, you know that? Our royal scientist's a pretty good hand with 'em. And I haven't seen any pictures on milk cartons since we came up here. And, y'know. A healthy skeleton needs a lot of milk."

"Well, I suppose you've thought of everything then," she says, adding to the stack of papers. "I hope you don't expect me to... to..."

Sans shrugs. "The only thing I expect is for you to never do something dumb like try and contact Frisk. Once I go, neither of us are ever, ever going to hear from each other again. I mean, unless Frisk wants to talk or something. I suppose that could happen. On a cold day in hell. But I wouldn't _stop_ them." He watches as she finishes stacking all the paperwork, checking a drawer one last time. "But if you so much as make a phone call in our general direction, that's gonna be a bad time for all parties involved. Capiche?"

She thrusts the armload of papers out at him, elbows stiff, and flinches when he reaches to take them. "I, I understand," she says. "I don't exactly have a choice in any of this, do I?"

"You did," says Sans, lifting his foot. "Once." When he puts it down, he's somewhere else.

* * *

This part of the park is quiet, and Frisk tries to believe it's not because of the security sweep. It might not have been; this little picnic ground is off by itself, mostly surrounded by trees. You wouldn't know it was there unless you knew the park well or had a good map. But not everyone's happy about the slow influx of monsters from the underground, and only Papyrus is unwilling to consider the potential implications of that. Better to be safe than sorry.

But it's a beautiful day out. Birds sing from the trees, and Asgore packed a ball into one of the baskets. Papyrus' spaghetti had ignited sometime in the cooking process, saving everyone from actually needing to eat it. Even Undyne, theoretically working today, looks to be in a good mood. It's weird, seeing her smile in their general direction. Maybe it's the fact that Alphys came along too. They spend a lot of time shyly circling each other, making vague overtures.

Frisk'd like to be able to do more for them that way, but Undyne's not gonna take that from them, and Alphys is still just a little bit too nervous about them to want that sort of encouragement. But it's nice to watch them. Out of the corner of one eye.

Papyrus runs ahead to the picnic table. "Over here!" Frisk can't help but smile after him, walking between Sans and the king, holding both their hands. Alphys, in a polka-dotted sundress, is up ahead with Undyne, pointing at trees and telling her facts about them. Apparently their seeds are shaped so that they'll fly super far if the wind catches them right.

Undyne waves a couple guards around to take up discreet positions around the edges of the picnic grounds. They've gotten this far without much in the way of cameras in their faces, and the guard seems to help keep them away.

"See?" says Sans, pointing to the barbecue next to the picnic table. "Told you we could make the hot dogs here."

Papyrus is busy opening one of the baskets, pulling out a big cloth and spreading it out over the table. The breeze tugs at the cloth, but Papyrus gives it a firm look and it stays pinned to the corners of the table. He starts emptying the basket, putting out salad and sandwiches and the hot dog buns and paper plates from beneath. Sans lets go of Frisk's hand to go join his brother, hefting the cooler up onto the table too.

Frisk looks up at Asgore, at the king, at their dad, and he smiles down at them. It's an easier smile than they deserve, but by the same token, he deserves to be able to smile like that. No part of them disagrees, even the part that met him only recently. But a part of them wonders if he thinks the same thing, when they smile back.

They don't get time to wonder for long, because the king bends to hoist them up to sit on his shoulder. They giggle despite themself and curl an arm around his horn to stay steady, making sure to stay clear of the dangerously sharp point. They head more toward the side of the clearing, looking up at the trees. "Thanks, dad," they say faintly, only to feel a chill when they realize it was out loud.

Asgore stops walking. "Did you just call me... 'dad'?" They hold onto his horn tightly, halfway expecting to get put down. "Do you think of me that way, Frisk? As a father to you?"

It's not like they can help thinking of him that way, no matter how careful they try and be about it. He _is_ their father. Most of their father. But it's not only that. He's been good to them, better than they deserve. Probably better than he should be, as a king to someone who did what they did. But it's not just that he's soft, or that he's been lonely, or that he can see the kids he once had inside of them. There's that, but that's not all of it. They've been learning their history, from teaching and from Asriel's extensive memories as Flowey. He sees something in them, something familiar. Not the same thing, not at all. But they're alike in ways no one should be.

Frisk clings to Asgore's horn, feels his arm tight around their legs, holding them securely there. The others are silent; present as always, but no hint or breath of opinion or desire coming up from within. Those feelings _exist_ , of course; they've felt them often enough. But for this second, Chara and Asriel both have entirely ceded control to Frisk. "I guess I do," they say. "Is, is that okay?" Two breaths held deep inside them are released.

On the other side of the picnic ground, Sans waits for the grill to heat up, and Papyrus is piling salad onto the plates, lecturing Sans about healthy food. Alphys chatters up at Undyne about the latest episode of a show she's been watching. Undyne isn't even pretending to keep her eye on them right now. The breeze ruffles through their hair, and through their glasses they don't even need to squint at all.

"It would make me very happy," says Asgore, lifting his free hand to run it against a tree-branch, "if you were to think of me that way. You are not saying it just for my sake, are you?"

Frisk pushes their glasses up out of the way and rubs at their eyes, but the back of their hand comes away dry. "I'm not," they say. "I didn't have a good family, for a long time. You, and, and everyone, you've all been..." Their glasses drop back onto their nose.

"I promise you," their dad says quietly, letting the branch go and leaves rustle in the air. "We all will take care of you as best we can. I understand that Sans even knows how to make butterscotch pie. Between everyone who loves you, we can be something like... like a family."

Despite everything, that's finally true.

 


	2. Holding Pattern Sources

**Nobody Home**

Pink Floyd, Nobody Home

H.P. Lovecraft, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

**Hysteresis**

Cool Hand Luke

Terry Pratchett, Thud

**A Will To Survive and a Voice of Reason**

A Perfect Circle, Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums

**Terminate and Stay Resident**

Powerman 5000, Murder

**So Far From Who We Are**

Machinae Supremacy, Insidious

Ursula K. Leguin, The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas

**Volatile Memory**

Metallica, Hero of the Day

**VIII - Justice (Reversed)**

Nine Inch Nails, My Violent Heart

**A Name That Has Been Erased**

Halsey, Control

**A Name That Has Been Retained**

The Wire

**NAME the World**

Undertale (Genocide route)

**Broken Pattern**

Nine Inch Nails, Zero-Sum

**The Way Out**

Metallica, Nothing Else Matters

* * *

Much as I don't enjoy parting out The Wall, and much as most of its significance is solely that it's from the second half, I also have a playlist of the songs used for titles and epigrams in this series. I don't know how cohesive it is, but it seems like a fun note to leave everyone on.

[You can find this here](http://8tracks.com/arcanista/despite-everything-finally). 

* * *

I'll be doing revision notes as a personal exercise as an appendix that will show up as a fourteenth entry just due to how AO3 handles series. This is pretty much entirely for myself, but it may be of interest to some to see how the pieces fit together. Regardless, that will be done to no particular schedule.

Thank you for reading, everyone.


End file.
